Love’s Magic

by Traci E Hall

  Nicholas exhaled and struggled to sort through the tangled weave of his emotions. His father, who had gone to great trouble to arrange his marriage with a healer, had first wanted him dead. What had changed?

  “Petyr, did he ever talk about my mother? Why did he leave her in this castle all alone?”

  “I don’t know, Nicholas. He was not one for confidences, and I only came up in rank after he sent his other men to Jerusalem with you. Methinks he carries many secrets close to his chest.”

  Nicholas realized that he could not hold off on seeing the baron for long—who knew when the man would decide he was better off dead, again?

  “I think, Nicholas, you should settle in here at your home with your lovely wife. Forget the man who sired you. You are your own man, and perhaps better for it.”

  Nicholas frowned at Petyr. “You are always filled with advice, but this time I will thank you to stay out of my affairs instead of punching you. Tell me where I can find my father. A visit is long overdue. I will need a sharp sword to pierce the man’s black heart—what is one more murder to me?”

  Petyr opened his mouth as if to argue, but they were interrupted by a piercing scream of terror. Nicholas pushed Petyr out of the way, knocking him into the bucket of water. Celestia needed him.

  Celestia had never been so glad to see the dawn. She had alternated between praying and yelling all night, determined that one way or another, God would hear what she had to say. She had called for the blessings of all the saints she could think of, and thanks to cantankerous Father Harold, she could think of many. She was tired in mind and body.

  She knelt at the oriel, the broken bay window was spiderwebbed with cracks, and peered out at the courtyard below. She tried to imagine what Nicholas’s life had been like as a child. When the courtyard would have been humming with activities and not deserted. She had a view of the north tower; its base of ashlar building stones seemed solid. Dirt, or soot, licked up the tower’s exterior, and Celestia added a good washing to her list of chores. No exterior stairs were visible.

  Why had the entrance from inside the keep to the tower been boarded over with thick planks and then mortared?

  What had Joseph meant last night at dinner about screams in the tower?

  Celestia rubbed her arms as a sudden chill swept through the room. She hadn’t felt any spirits or ghosts. Her lack of sleep was making her nervous and edgy.

  A wailing scream of pure terror resounded through the keep’s thick walls. Celestia jumped to her feet, ran out of the room and down the stairs before the sound subsided. Viola saw her and screamed again. Her maid’s cap was sideways on her head, and she was pointing down at the moat.

  Celestia’s first concern was Nicholas. Had he foolishly tried to leave during the night and drowned in that noxious pool of poison? Her vision of the moat returned, and she could taste the foul water at the back of her throat.

  She ran to Viola, desperate for news. Keeping her voice calm, she asked, “What is it? Let me see.”

  Viola fell to her knees at the entrance. “‘Tis Bess. She’s in the moat!”

  Celestia was out the door and down to the berm in a flash. The small mound of earth betwixt the keep and the moat was spongy and rotten, but she didn’t pay it any heed. She dropped to her knees and grabbed Bess by the leg to pull her out of the stinking water. The body was heavy, and her hands slipped, sending her closer to the edge. She took a deep breath and tried again.

  She protested weakly as she was gently moved aside. “Let me, Celestia. How long has she been here?”

  “I don’t know, Nicholas. I just heard Viola’s scream. She’s dead, Nicholas, she was facedown in the …” she swallowed bile, “in the water.”

  Celestia’s stomach heaved as Nicholas pulled Bess out of the moat; it wasn’t water, but thick—her belly protested—like vomit.

  Nicholas flipped Bess over and Celestia backed away, then leaned back in, her illness momentarily pushed aside. The maid’s apron was tied about her neck; her tongue lolled out of her mouth, and her eyes were wide open, locked forever in fear.

  She turned to the side and retched. Nicholas handed her a clean handkerchief.

  “She’s been murdered,” he said, as if he had to hear it for himself.

  “I can see that!”

  “What shall we say to the others?”

  Celestia pointed to Petyr, who was standing behind Nicholas. “Ask him. I can’t think … I just need a moment.” She was a healer for a reason; death was not her strong suit. But murder? Who would kill Bess?

  Petyr pointed to the knights above. “They can see everything from there, and your voice carries. They already know.”

  Nicholas exhaled. “Celestia, gather everyone in the hall. Petyr, will you help me carry Bess around to the back? We will give her a quick burial.”

  “Nay!” Celestia put her hand on Nicholas’s arm. “I will bathe her first. The others will want to see her.” She’d been so friendly, so pretty, so flirtatious. Mayhap that had been the issue. A jealous suitor?

  Nicholas must have heard the edge in her voice. “What are you thinking?”

  Celestia shrugged off his hand, and wished she were better at lying. “‘Tis nothing, my lord. I simply want to do the proper thing.”

  She ignored his shrewd look.

  “Fine. Follow us, then.” He called to Bertram, “Can you gather everyone together in the main room? We will be in shortly.”

  Celestia’s hands were shaking by the time they had laid Bess out in the shed. The doors were open, so she had plenty of light. “You don’t need to stay,” she told the men.

  Petyr left, but Nicholas remained. “What are you looking for?”

  Celestia sighed; she knew how sensitive her husband was, especially to this. “Bess was a pretty young woman. She has on no shoes, nor stockings. I am going to see if she, er, had, well … Hmm.” Her cheeks flamed. “You know.”

  Nicholas glanced toward the door where Petyr was standing and then back. He whispered, “You think she had a lover?”

  Exasperated, Celestia tapped him on the sleeve. “Nay. Bess was a flirt, but a very good girl, as well.” She plunged in. “I am looking for evidence of rape, my lord.”

  “Rape?” His queasy face immediately flushed with anger. “You think one of these men would resort to such brutality? I’ll not look away from such a despicable act.”

  Celestia bravely touched her bare fingers to his smooth wrists. “I know.”

  He calmed beneath her touch, and Celestia was reassured that her healing powers were not gone yet. While she still had them, she still had time to make him love her.

  “Now,” she said, “would you at least turn your head, so that I can do this? I swear to Saint Edward that most newly wedded couples talk about nice things.” Seeing Nicholas’s blank look she suggested, “Dancing, meals … a family. Not curses and death.”

  “Which Edward was he?”

  “The third. Patron saint of difficult marriages.” She lifted Bess’s dress.

  Nicholas left the shed.

  Mayhap a quarter of an hour had passed before Celestia was washed and ready for the meeting. She carried a mug of hot lemon and honey, to help stop the lingering nausea. Lemon and honey were also used to cleanse the palate, but the tart sweetness did not erase the stench of death in her nostrils. She drank again.

  She took her place next to Nicholas, who was sitting at the head of their makeshift table, and looked at each of the keep’s inhabitants. All she saw were faces filled with sorrow. Geoffrey’s eyes were red from tears; Viola’s face was puffy and raw. Forrester and Henry were subdued, while Petyr tapped his finger against his thigh, and appeared to be deep in thought. Bertram and Willy sat like soldiers, their faces set in grief. Nicholas looked … guilty?

  Why was she surprised? The man took everything that could go wrong as a personal affront. “Unless you killed Bess, my lord Nicholas, this situation is not your fault. Kindly bring yourself from your moment of self-pity and he
lp me solve this crime.”

  Nicholas got to his feet, his face white with fury.

  “What?”

  Celestia calmly sipped her hot drink. “You heard me, my lord. We need your brains, sir.” She wouldn’t look at him and turned to the rest of the group. “Bess was knocked on the back of the head, and then choked to death with her own apron.”

  Viola sobbed, “Who would want to kill poor Bessie?”

  Celestia met her husband’s angry, accusing eyes. “It could have been any one of us. The only injuries I found to her person were the ones I just described.”

  Nicholas exhaled, his relief evident. “When was the last time anyone saw Bess?”

  “We all went to bed at the same time last eve,” Bertram said.

  “I was tired, and slept through the night.” Forrester glanced at Nicholas. “Well, most of it.”

  Her husband studied the trussed ceiling of the hall.

  Petyr said, “Nicholas, you slept in the barn. Did you hear anything?”

  Celestia hid her smile as Nicholas glared from Petyr to the rest of knights. Forrester sent her a knowing grin, which she immediately frowned at.

  “Well, Petyr, as you know, I have trouble sleeping, and I did not wish to disturb my wife. But no, I did not see Bess, nor hear anything amiss.”

  Celestia intercepted a look that Nicholas sent Petyr, and if she read it correctly, it was a look that promised retribution. She looked at Petyr, but his nose seemed fine. Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest.

  Petyr finger combed his mustache, as if unconcerned.

  The bottoms of his leggings were wet, yet he hadn’t gotten in the moat. What was going on?

  Celestia looked to Nicholas and cleared her throat to remind him he needed to take control. “Well, my lord? What are we to do?”

  Nicholas almost broke under the weight of so many needy stares. He had no bloody answers. He paced the main hall, thinking. He was lord of this pile of rock, and it was his duty to care for everyone in it.

  He could leave, go to the baron, and tear the bastard limb from limb. But not while there was a murderer loose and Celestia was in danger.

  Fate.

  He crossed his arms and ground his back teeth. He made eye contact with each person. “Bess left the castle sometime in the night, and none of us heard her or noticed her missing.”

  Viola raised her head. “I awoke to, er … well I just did.” Her red cheeks let everyone know she’d had to use the chamber pot. “I might have wakened Bess, for it was after I was,” the red flamed from her cheeks to the tips of her ears, “finished, that I thought I heard rustling. I assumed Bess had a similar need, and I went back to sleep.”

  Celestia touched Viola’s hand. “‘Tis all right, Viola. So you don’t know if she went outdoors instead? For more privacy, perhaps?” The pretty maid shook her head.

  Nicholas paced, his boot heels clicking against the stone floor. “Let us say, then, that she must have left the solar of her own accord. What made her go near the moat? Who had the watch last eve?”

  This time it was Willy who colored like a rosebush. “It was me, Lord Nicholas. But I …” The young man straightened his shoulders and said, “I fell asleep.”

  Petyr shot to his feet. “Nay! You did what?”

  “All was quiet on the battlements! I saw nothing, and the wine at dinner … I fell asleep at my post, sir.”

  Willy straightened his shoulders, certain that he’d be given twenty lashes. Petyr cuffed him upside the head and looked ready to follow through with another tap.

  Nicholas grabbed Petyr’s fist. “Not in here amongst the women, Petyr. There has been enough violence already. Discipline him outside.”

  Petyr bowed an apology, as did a shamefaced Willy.

  Nicholas lowered his chin and resumed the mantle of duty. “Did anyone here kill our Bess? I don’t think so. Are any going to now confess of the deed?” He glowered at them all, but none admitted to murder.

  Instead of guilt on their faces, he saw hope—the belief that he would somehow keep the rest of them safe. The burden was heavy so he expelled a sigh and admitted, “Last night, I was going to leave the keep.”

  Celestia gasped. “Leave?”

  “To find my father.”

  “Oh!” Her dainty, work-roughened hands clenched tightly in her lap, the pulse in her throat leapt. He had no doubt she believed she cared, and it scared the piss out of him. He hadn’t wanted any responsibilites.

  “But now I will go to the village that Grainne Kat mentioned. There should be a priest there, and we can bring him back to properly bury Bess. He can say a blessing for the others, too.”

  Celestia nodded, her face proud. “I shall go with you.”

  “Nay. I can go alone.”

  She pushed back from her bench seat and walked to him, unmindful of his towering height. He could see that she’d slept, or rather didn’t sleep, in her dress from the eve before. She was disheveled, her hair tangled, and her heart confused. She faced him like a warrior as she pierced him with her blazing mismatched eyes.

  His heart beat louder in his ears, and his mouth dried. “Would you argue with me?”

  “I will go, Nicholas. We will go together. You need me.”

  His groin tightened. “I don’t need you,” he lied.

  “Aye, you do; you are just too stubborn to admit it. I am coming, Nicholas, even if I have to sneak out and follow you!”

  Visions of Celestia using bedsheets to climb out of their chamber to the ground below buckled his knees. The woman had no sense of her own mortality. He yanked at his hair, frustration in every bone of his body. “Fine.”

  Nicholas didn’t know whether to laugh or howl when she gave him a curtsy meant for a king and said in that sweet voice, “Thank you, Nicholas.”

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  Brenin and Ceffyl—chestnut and white, stallion and mare—got along better than their human riders. Nicholas was afraid to point out the similarities.

  “Why do you never do as I say?”

  Celestia glowered at him. “You should ask me to do something worthy, and then I might.”

  “I am capable of bringing back a priest on my own, Celestia. Believe this or no, I used to be quite able to care for myself.”

  She jerked her chin in the air. “And how long ago was that, my lord?”

  Nicholas wanted to throttle the wench. For once, wallowing in his guilt was not near as important as making her see reason. He cantered forward. She caught up, refusing to let him take the lead.

  They rode into the village, bristling like hedgehogs. Celestia quietly asked, “Can you stop frowning? Who will talk to us if you frighten the children?”

  “Would be that there were children to frighten. Is this entire country deserted?” Nicholas sought calm, but it was nowhere to be found. His life had been remarkably easier when he hadn’t cared at all, about anyone or anything.

  He eyed Celestia, who looked like a fairy queen in her dark green cloak. Her hair flowed down her back, almost as white as Ceffyl’s mane. “Why didn’t you braid your hair? Or wear a veil? Have you no modesty?”

  “Aghh! You said you were leaving without me. I was lucky to get the tangles out.”

  Nicholas ground his back teeth together.

  Neat and tidy huts lined the road, smoke curled from various chimneys, but no people showed their faces. “We don’t look like the bloody Scottish patrol, so why is there no one to greet us?”

  “For once I agree, Nicholas, this is more than passing strange. Let’s go to the church over there on the corner.”

  He found the steeple and turned toward it, at his wit’s end. The churchyard was fenced and whitewashed, and inside were a few pigs and chickens. An elderly man in a black robe came around from the henhouse and into the front yard.

  “Good day,” Nicholas called out.

  The priest looked up, and fright immediately covered his age-lined face. He dropped his eggs on the cobblestones and didn�
�t seem to notice when they oozed yellow yolk over his toes. “Baron Peregrine!”

  Celestia rode forward. “Good day, Father.”

  The priest turned to Celestia and clutched his heart. “Oh, God in heaven, a fairy witch!”

  She laughed, as if she was accused every day, and used to it. “I am no witch, nor a fairy. Just small.” She dismounted and held out her hand to Nicholas.

  “Nicholas,” she whispered from the side of her mouth. “Nicholas. He only has one eye, stop staring.”

  Nicholas was not staring because the priest had but one eye, no, it was something else. A tip of something, mayhap a memory.

  The priest pointed a shaking, gnarled finger at Nicholas. “I told ye, Baron, that I know nothing about a curse. It was the Lady Esmerada’s doing.”

  Celestia tugged on Nicholas’s tunic hem, and he was hard-pressed not to shake her off. “Nicholas. He thinks you are your father … say something! Can’t you see he is scared to death?”

  Nicholas blinked and swatted at her hand. “Um, yes. Priest! My name is not Philippe Peregrine. I am Nicholas. Nicholas Le Blanc. And I remember you. You are Father Michael.”

  Celestia looked at him in awe. “You know him?”

  “Aye. Do you not remember me, Father?”

  Father Michael shuffled his feet forward until he came to the short fence and tilted his face so that his good eye could see clearly. “Nicholas? Nicholas! Not the father, but the son.”

  Nicholas slid off of his horse, and the priest opened the gate. Celestia stayed by his side, quiet for once, but he saw the happiness on her face, for him and for the return of a memory, and he forgave her for arguing.

  “You’re handsome when you’re moody,” she teased.

  Father Michael led them into his small quarters on the side of the church. “Would some ale be welcome?”

  Nicholas answered nay, but Celestia smiled and accepted a leather mug, as regally as a princess born, Nicholas thought. She settled comfortably on her bench, as if readying for a childhood story.

  Nicholas felt like a giant in the small room, and he had to duck his head until he sat. “What happened to you, Father Michael?”